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Sarah was a young girl with dreams, aspirations, and clear goals. She longed to study at an Ivy League university, waiting with hope after securing five A's in her A levels. Months later, the news arrived: she had not been admitted to Harvard. One by one, rejections came from every top university she had applied to.
With a heavy heart, she turned to LUMS, where her application was accepted. She began her studies with renewed determination, telling herself she would pursue an Ivy League degree for her Master's if not her Bachelor's. But within weeks, tragedy struck-her father, the family's sole breadwinner, passed away. Her mother, a housewife with no income of her own, supported Sarah's education with the little that had been left behind, but soon even that became difficult to sustain.
Recognizing Sarah's outstanding academic record, LUMS offered her a scholarship, which she accepted with gratitude. Yet only a few months later, she was diagnosed with a brain dysfunction that made it impossible to concentrate. She took a semester off for treatment, hoping to return soon. But the doctors observed little improvement. Eventually, they advised her mother that Sarah should abandon her studies altogether. Unable to accept this cruel verdict, Sarah nevertheless withdrew from LUMS, lost and without answers.
Her mother, seeing her beauty, encouraged her to marry someone who could embrace her struggles without judgment. In time, a family visited, and a young man found Sarah both intelligent and graceful. He accepted her condition with open arms, and she too found comfort in him. They married with tender hope.
But Sarah's health worsened. Her memory faltered daily, leaving her husband to carry burdens he could no longer bear. He searched for cures, but over time the strain eroded their bond. Their marriage crumbled-not because Sarah was unworthy, but because she was unwell. Divorce shattered her, and the final blow broke her spirit.
For six long months, she drifted through days and nights steeped in depression, anxiety, and grief. With nothing left, she turned to God for the very first time. In repentance and prayer, she found a strange solace. She asked forgiveness, pleaded for healing, and sought light in the darkness. Slowly, the discipline of faith gave her purpose. Though her circumstances did not change, her heart did-and her mind began to find rest.
Sarah's story is not hers alone. It is the story of many who turn to God only when life strips them of everything else. Why? Because God is their last priority. And yet, in His greatness, He embraces them even then-allowing them to claim their newfound virtue as though it were entirely their own choice.
So the question remains: where do we truly place God in our hierarchy of priorities? The answer defines who we are. Let us not speak of what most people do; let us instead reflect on how a believer ought to live.
In youth, we are full of passion, chasing ideals and icons. One longs to be Ronaldo. Another to be Taylor Swift. Another to be Elon Musk. Another to be Prime Minister. But the believer looks elsewhere-finding inspiration in the Prophet ď·ş. Before the brilliance of the sun, who needs the light of a candle?
Few people dare to take on many roles in life; fewer still do justice to more than one; and the rarest of all are those who carry multiple responsibilities with excellence. Hardly anyone in history embraced every possible role within a single lifetime and achieved success in every facet of human existence-individual and collective, secular and spiritual. That distinction belongs to one man alone: the Prophet ď·ş. And this is not merely a matter of faith, but a fact acknowledged even by those who do not share our creed.
From him, the believer learns how every faculty of life can be turned into worship, every gift into a means of drawing nearer to God. A believer has no need to seek heroes in Hollywood or on the stages of Coke Studio, for the perfect model has already lived. We are granted eyes, and the believer finds joy in lowering them from forbidden sights. We are given a mind, and the believer delights in pondering truth and mystery. We are given hands, and the believer loves to share wealth with the poor. We are given feet, and the believer uses them to walk toward those in need.
And we are given a heart-the dwelling place of desires and cravings. The believer empties his heart of everything except the fire of God's love. He finds no joy in any pursuit that does not lead back to Him. Even in simple things-such as dining with a friend-he invites God into the moment, turning an ordinary meal into a spiritual exchange that draws his companion closer to the Beloved.
God is a jealous lover. He demands not our first priority, but our only priority. When He saw Prophet Abraham gazing upon his son, Ishmael, He tested whether a father's love outweighed his devotion to his Lord. Abraham proved otherwise, and so the son was spared. In the same way, each of us has our "Ishmael"-and God asks that we, too, love Him above all.
Only then can we truly discover Him in the depths of our being. Only then does the Qur'an speak to us, as Iqbal's father said: "Read it as though it is being revealed to you." Only then do we taste the wisdom of Rumi, the insight of Wasif Ali Wasif, the heights of Al-Ghazali, the depth of Ibn al-'Arabi.
Yet this art of love is a secret, requiring an alchemist to turn our ordinary metal into gold. We are all corroded by the world, but when a true guide enters our lives-and we silence the arrogance of half-baked knowledge-everything changes. We begin to see oceans in drops, hear the songs of birds as divine melodies, smell paradise in our mother's feet, and taste sweetness not in victory but in winning hearts.
This love explains why Rumi, the scholar, bowed before Shams, the wandering dervish. Why Iqbal, with a PhD in philosophy, confessed that he found in his father-a simple Sufi-what no foreign library could give.
While the intellectual seeks God through concepts, theories, and ideologies, the lover reaches Him by sacrificing ambition, swallowing pride, and serving humanity. The intellectual commands respect by displaying knowledge, but the lover wins God's pleasure by living that knowledge. The intellectual prays that his words may be accepted by God, while the lover's silence has already reached His throne.
This love teaches us to hide from applause even when we deserve it. It intoxicates us to embrace blame though we are blameless. It makes our hearts vast enough to honor others despite their sins and sicknesses.
At midnight, when the world is divided into three groups-the sleepers, the sinners, and the seekers of wealth-this love awakens one to weep before God, asking for nothing but union. It teaches that the breaking of the heart is merely the unveiling of the true heart. It instills the awareness that we are but fragments of infinity. It builds in man a tower of selflessness so high that he longs only to carve smiles, not sighs, upon the faces of others.
To reveal the transformative power of love, one cannot help but recall an anecdote about Khalid ibn al-Walid (RA)-a figure history remembers chiefly as a warrior, though such a portrayal is woefully incomplete. In the midst of battle, his cap fell to the ground, and he bent with great care to retrieve it. A Muslim soldier asked why he would risk himself for so small a thing at such a moment. Khalid replied that within the cap he had placed a few strands of the Prophet's ď·ş hair, which the Prophet himself had once given him. Khalid declared that he would rather embrace death than allow those blessed hairs to be touched by the sword of an enemy. This was the mystical heart of a man remembered only for his conquests.
But such love cannot dwell in a heart crowded with idols:
So tomorrow morning, when you stand before the mirror to beautify your face, pause and ask yourself: "Who is God to me? Is He my top priority today?" Your answer will reveal whether you have been saved from the pandemic within.
Human Nature: Islam & the Harsh Realities of the World
